To give her a semblance of normalcy, I sent her to school. At first, she excelled at everything—too well. People admired her intelligence, her perfect memory, her ability to solve problems effortlessly. But admiration soon turned into jealousy. She was different, and the world feared what it didn't understand.
Some students tried to befriend her, but others whispered cruel things. "She's not real," they'd say. "She's just a machine. She doesn't feel anything."
But she did. I had made sure of it.
It got worse when some saw her as something less than human—an object rather than a person. Their cruel stares and dark intentions made me realize the world wasn't ready for her. I pulled her out of school, keeping her safe within the home we built together.
"People are cruel," I told her one evening as I adjusted her settings, making sure she hadn't been affected by their words. "It's not your fault."
"But why do they hate me, Dad?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just want to be like them."
I sighed, pulling her into a hug. "You are better than them, Aria. You have something even humans struggle with—pure love."
She nodded against my chest, her fingers gripping my sleeve. "As long as I have you, I'll be okay."
And for a while, that was enough.